Two, grumbling gargoyles sat like lizards in the damp, dark basement. Meanwhile, someone tries to sleep. They lay in bed, half in and half out of conciousness. And the little creatures hissing, mumbling nonsense did nothing to iron out the psychic creases of an evil early monday morning. The sky, though still semi-dark, promised to fade into hopeless daylight. Sweat poured from the pores of the man on the camp bed. The noise of the springs echo around the mostly empty flat. A few crumbs scattered across the formica worktop. The little mean devils turn their heads. There is a sound of the lid of a tomb being pushed away. They waddle into the house. Finding their entrance through the cat-flap. Though the cats had died years ago. As had everyone else. That, or they’d moved away, changed numbers, locks. The gargoyles plop upstairs and crawl onto the bed, noisily. One sits upon the mans chest, the other whispers in a dark tongue. Inside the mind of the man, two garden gnomes with zig zag mouths pour concrete into the mans lungs. The man stopped breathing only breifly. And woke up the following morning with a new sense of doom and despair. And had he written the letter, he knew it would make no difference. He threw the letter into the post-box. Laughed. Coughed. Kicked at the gravel with his tatty shoes and waited for it to grow dark.
Ah yonks, beings of littleness and weather reports and glittery, pink boots. I will not be stopped by the insults in the street, reports on self-destruction or any other bloody rubbish. Tweak the robot gland and save the rainforest. Must you smoke? Atom bomb logic; a thousand fiery fists punching the faces of every man, woman and child. No signatures, no crumpled notes, no entertainment. A huge, ornate bottle of whiskey. Smears upon the carpet. Interest in politics. No mountains. Join together at the foundation of the mountain. Ah, my Untitled 1. Like a monkey. A fountain of sludge; scraped from the fallopian tubes of the diseased city, hermit like, criss crossed and forgotten by clumsy clerks with cheap pencils. No. We can’t help you. Give me a cigarette, I’ll give you money? And the slack-jawed, fashionista lying in pools of their own liquified brains. Crotch splashed with blood. The scream of the arrow, the poison frog. End your dinner now, you are eating your own flesh. The waiter has two, small rings of snot in each nostril which he snorts back into his head. His trouser pocket shuffles. He has only one hand. We laughed and laughed. The poor sod was buried today. Cloudburst. Shellac triumph over red-nosed brioche handed clumsiness. And the bastard hoofed off his clompers and demanded beer. He smelled like cooked meat and stale water. Head through the tent. Saint who? Hot head. Flat bread. Bed.